The most spectacular walks in the area
without doubt are along the coast path.
Most memorable of these for me have been
and are from Cleave to Crackington with
tide in, sun setting. In contrast, on
the rare occasions with snow on ground,
Crackington to Boscastle, Hardy’s Blue
Eye Country.

Have wanted for some time to discover
the ancient path from Wainhouse to Week
St Mary, which was once hundreds of
years ago, before roads, possibly the
main route to the coast at Crackington.
The opportunity came recently when
Edward at Wainhouse was repairing my old
Citroen. With four legged friend we set
off down through Jacobstow. Of all the
hundreds of journeys made in the old
Stag to Week St Mary, for Saturday
Market, this was the first by Shanks
pony!

Through Jacobstow bear right then right
again over cattle grid or stile (at the
time of writing purposely obstructed)
past duck pond to first gate, way marker
not visible. Here an inquiring resident
looked out and when asked, did not know
where the path led. This was intriguing.

After passing through a few fields the
path became clearer though a little
overgrown. Eventually the path emerged
onto high ground, quality grazing,
spectacular views, right down to Brown
Willy and left across Dartmoor. Here I
met a gent I knew from long ago tending
the most perfect, splendid flock of over
a hundred two tooths. With greetings
exchanged the path was pointed out. The
four pinnacles of Week St Mary church
similar to those of Jacobstow and St
Gennys came into view. The way down onto
a cart track, wooded valley, this I
guessed would be the main approach into
Penhallam Manor circa 1200, a place I
knew well from visits there thirty or
more years ago, when I met by chance
Beresford, the archaeologist responsible
for the site. While doing this work he
lodged at the Coomb Barton. Remember
well his excitement on unearthing a
deposit of ash. He was convinced that
this was the remains of a corn dry
essential in preserving barley/oats for
milling through damp winters.
The cart track leads to what was once an
impressive manor entrance of moat and
draw bridge. The estate was the property
of the Cardinhams though not their main
residents.

Passing splendid pines the path emerges
at the bottom of the hill to Week St
Mary arriving there with thirst only to
find Green Inn closed. My friend
unconcerned, she had gorged herself,
refreshment all the way by striping
large bunches of black berries in one
and drinking puddle water.

Hungry thirsty, recalled the tasty
lunches of roast beef served in the
Temperance Hotel, Saturdays after
market. It was not always dry in there,
come Christmas Fatstock Show bottles of
hard stuff were quietly drained. Maybe
because of this disreputable consumption
or that the house was falling down, the
venue was moved to the Green Inn.

Here the supply of the good stuff was
guaranteed. After roast beef, spoofing
for rounds was the norm.
The yarn and fun was occasionally not
fit for polite society! The characters,
a mixed bunch, most larger than life.

The best stories repeated at least
annually, often about how small fortunes
were made and lost or of shady deals
that benefited all, fingers burnt,
lessons learnt. Characters were
colourful, stock farmers, buyers,
auctioneers, meat packers, racehorse
trainers, dandy buyer who always arrived
in a gold Rolls Royce, a gentleman buyer
from Exeter way with lady who apparently
wasn’t his wife. Buyers from all over
the west country, encouraged to attend
by weekly press reports of top quality
and numbers of stock always thick end of
one or two thousand, brought more keener
buyers, higher prices, greater numbers
and it worked, it was fun, after a busy
morning the beer and beef went down a
treat.

Saturday is quiet in Week St Mary now,
the market closed in the eighties. Did
the market out grow the village? Or was
it the intervention of Brussels and the
bureaucrat? Livestock containers
sometimes queued from Green Inn to The
Temperance from 8am. The site now is
residential, despite a significant
increase in village population Green Inn
is also closed and may never open again.

The walk back to Wainhouse was just as
pleasing, my ursa minor like friend in
the last field went berserk in a mad
race of large ever decreasing circles,
full of the joys, where does she get her
energy, ten miles in much less than four
hours? Stormy day walk, sheltered by
tall hedges, woodland and fond memories.